Grimoire
by S.R. Winchester
Summary: Post-Madhouse: The Grimoire. A book which has those of inhuman persuasion looking over their shoulders. A tell-all book which would expose their every weakness. Cal and Niko are reluctantly drawn to Greece in search of the author of the book and find themselves in the middle of a supernatural war. Cal/OC Rated for Language
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue: Kalokari, Greece**

**Disclaimer:** What you recognize, I don't own. I like playing with other people's toys; that's all. Meow!

In my twenty-three years, I can only remember crying a handful of times. Not including the screaming delirium of nightmares that I've never remembered. They were all for Niko. Mostly fear, but also the times I thought I'd lost him. Even so, the feeling of tears were alien as they ran down my face and dripped into the rain that soaked my hair. This time, it wasn't for Nik.

It was the girl who saved our lives: Phoebe.

Her blood was silvery-blue, metallic even as it mixed with the puddled that had formed in the glassy volcanic sand. She was shredded with claws and knives, and there vicious bruises from captivity made me squeamish. She had been a friend in a world where not even Goodfellow's charm had made a dent. And we had gotten her killed.

"Come on, Phebes," I wheedled, ignoring how pathetically childish I sounded; not even cold-blooded Niko could blame me this time. "Don't give up on us. Please."

There was nothing beautiful now about the swollen face and camouflage patterns of bruises, of the quadruple lines of parallel scrapes from any number of monsters that had been employed to torture her. In New York, I would have known where to take her, but here...

Neither Niko nor I spoke the language, and there weren't enough red-blooded humans for Goodfellow to charm for help. But Traveling... I didn't think she'd like through the trip in Tumulous back home.

She gave me a broken, bloody smile. "Go home, Cal," she croaked. Goddamn, did she sound bad! There might have been ground glass in her throat, lubricated by her own blood. "Please. Take her and go home."

Was one book worth this? Twelve people (I use the term very loosely, of course) were dead, and Phoebe would make it a round thirteen. All this for a book, a rumor. For once, I didn't want this to be over.

Not this job.

**Note:** This story doesn't take into account any events after Madhouse. To date (7/28/2013), I haven't finished Deathwish or anything which follows.


	2. Chapter One: New York

**Chapter One: New York**

**Disclaimer:** What you recognize, I don't own. I like playing with other people's toys; that's all. Meow!

Tuesdays are really slow days at a bar.

It's a universal truth, monster or not. You can walk into any bar, club, or pool joint in New York and if there's not the neighborhood drunk slumped in a back booth snoring loudly and smelling of stale vomit, the place is a ghost town. A lot of strip clubs or dance clubs usually have their second- or third-string performers scheduled for Tuesday nights. They don't expect much in on Tuesdays.

Needless to say, Tuesday is the one day of the week that bores the fuck out of me. There's only so many times you can wipe down the bar or count glasses or liquor bottles before boredom bites you in the ass. And that's if you _don't_ have a short attention span like me. Apart from a chupacabra nursing a tequila neat in the booth by the kitchen (don't ask me why, but chupas are the _slowest_ drinkers in the preternatural world), the Ninth Circle was empty. It didn't help that it was raining; not even monsters – kelpies excluded – cared for polluted rain in the city. Yep, those damn kelpies just _had_ to be contrary...

Chupa, I noticed, was looking more furtive than usual. It kept looking between the door, the clock, and me. By and large, they preferred flight over fight, and it really did look like it was going to run screaming any moment. Usually Chupa was content at Ninth Circle (I don't think it was ever really happy unless it was sucking some poor goat dry), but then again, the bar had never been this empty since I started working here. Chupa was probably getting a full sniff of me – and the needle-toothed monster that was my sperm donor – and not liking it.

That was something I got used to real quick after my brother Niko and I got involved with the shadowy monsters of New York. Trolls, werewolves, boggles – we'd tangled with them all. Banshees and vampires, no problem. What I was scared even the supernatural baddies into pissing themselves and running in terror. I was Auphe to them. Where the Hell in history the scarlet-eyed and needle-toothed Auphe had evolved into the beautiful and graceful Elf I _know_ you all just imagined is beyond my comprehension. As a matter of fact, if you asked Nik, he wouldn't be so sure either. A rarity for Niko.

The Brothers Grimm really fucked that one up.

The Chupa jumped down from the stool it had occupied as far from me as it could get (he was only five-foot-two so his feet dangled like a kid's) and slouched over to me with his empty glass. Typical Chupa; they could close out the bar with only 3 beers down. I hadn't got more of a clue what they did outside of the bar than I did about ancient table manners. Chupacabras barely pass as human with their hoods up. The bony creatures never grew over five-foot-four and looked like the bastardized hybrid of a dog and a lizard. They always paid cash, though, so maybe they were the Central Park muggers. Hell if I knew.

"Auphe," said the Chupa, and I'll admit to being genuinely surprised to hear a female (or what passed as female) voice heavily accented with Spanish.

Holy shit.

The glass rested on the bar before me, and the Chupa climbed up to the bar stool so she could look me in the eye. "_Tequila_," she said and put down another five bucks. "_Haga doble._" She sat back and visibly breathed through her mouth. Apparently she wasn't partial to Eau de Auphe.

I filled her glass again without comment. I got the reaction a lot. The Auphe in me stunk, according to just about every creature I'd come into contact with. Maybe someday, I'd even know _what_ it smelled like. I was happy in my ignorance for now. "You know you could open a tab, right?" I asked her, genuinely curious. Being female explained her preference for fine Mexican tequila when most of the clientele wanted crappy light beer. She had the money (usually) for the good stuff, so why not indulge without worrying about the bill just yet?

"_Credito es no bueno_," Chupa replied. "_Es muy fácil olvidarse de lo que debe_." Clearly, the blank expression I gave her said I had skipped a few years of Spanish classes in school. More fool her; I hadn't gone to school. "No good," she said again. Yes, her accent was thick, but surprisingly she sounded human. More or less. "Hard to pay. Forget how much. Better pay now." She hopped off the stool, her feet making a many-clawed clicking when they met the floor. Chupa took the tequila and clicked back to the stool she had occupied before – far away from me. "_Los ángeles me entienden. ¿Por qué no lo haces?_"

"You managed to piss off a Chupa," said an annoyingly familiar voice in my ear. "And one that's half-sloshed. Must be that ingratiating personality of yours."

I'd heard him coming, of course. Fuck, I'd smelled the bastard outside. And the unnerving thing was that it wasn't his usual overwhelming cologne I smelled. Musky and primal, Robin Goodfellow smelled like sex mixed with ozone and fresh air. I cringed dramatically and waved at the air in front of my nose. Robin had just gotten out of bed with my boss, a foul-tempered peri named Ishiah.

"So sue me. Niko's homeschooling didn't cover Spanish. I was too busy flunking Sword Swings 101." I poured him a glass of scotch – the good stuff we hid under the bar – and tied my hair in its customary ponytail. "You smell like you spent the last week fucking something in Montana."

He took a slug of the scotch and gave me his most lascivious grin. "As a matter of fact, did you know your boss likes to—"

"Don't even start!" I covered my ears. "I don't wanna know what happens when you and Ish are behind locked doors. Where is Ish, anyway? Or does he not like Turkish-Orgy Tuesday?"

Goodfellow's grin dropped away. "You're no fun, you know that?" he groused and tossed back what remained in his glass. He set it down for me to refill. "And his favorite day of the week happens to be Whips-and-Shackles Wednesdays. The noises he makes..." He rolled his eyes in a mockery of ecstasy.

"So what brings you out of your hidey hole? Run out of lube or positions?"

He looked horrified. "Caliban, have I taught you nothing? There are none more inventive than a puck. The Kama Sutra? Puh-lease! That was entertaining as a coloring book, but it has nothing on Rome and Greece." He sighed dramatically, ignoring the Chupa's chittering "_¡Cállate! ¡Estoy tratando de disfrutar mi tequila!_"

I rolled my eyes. Robin and his bravado. "Okay, okay. But you didn't answer my question, Loman. Why are you here?" I looked pointedly at the clock and faked a huge yawn. "I gotta lock up in two hours, and I'm bored enough to listen to anything but how many priestesses you screwed."

"And priests. And government officials. Oh, and the virgins. Don't forget that."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Spill it, Loman, or I'll make you spill it." My lips quirked in a half-smile. "I've still got Promise on speed dial."

He cringed in earnest. My brother and Promise had been officially over for about half a year now, but they still worked together in the capacity of co-workers. She brought us cases and supported us financially when it didn't pay as well as we liked. She was still a friend – a dear friend – but Niko had sat me down and made sure I knew that they were through for good. He didn't explain why, and I didn't ask. With me and Niko, there wasn't a reason to. If my brother wanted to tell me, he would in his own time.

Looking unamused, Robin pulled the glass protectively close to him and swirled it. The peaty smell of it wafted up like fog. "Have you noticed the oogy-boogies becoming a little less oogy lately?" he asked, deadly serious. "Almost helpful, dare I imply it?"

I had, actually. The monsters I encountered from day-to-day all looked a little wary. Chupa, for example. She still looked cautiously at the door. The Kin were less eager to try to snarl at me on the walk home, and even the revenants – not known for their patience or restraint – were less-apt to jump me. Like they could. "Like they're scared," I said and glanced at Chupa. She was listening, her pricked dog ears pointed our way. "You got some intel why?"

"Grapevines are my specialty," said Robin proudly. That, and doing all sorts of X-rated things no human ever thought of. "According to a friend of a friend of a friend, there's reason to be nervous. Someone – or something, more likely – is writing a tell-all about us. Our kind's strengths, weaknesses, and all the sordid details in-between. Well, as much as will fit anyway. The sexcapades of the pucks wouldn't fit in one piddly little volume."

I swallowed, ignoring his impending tangent. The Brothers Grimm had done the same thing, but in the form of children's stories. No one – save the indoctrinated – believed it. Even if published as fiction, however, it was a threat. Think of the fury over vampires. I don't mean the glowy Twilight wimps. Bram Stoker's vampires, Vampire the Masquerade, the murders in Florida by a demented kid who thought he _was_ a vampire... The insane and deluded believed almost anything. Suppose they ran into a real baddy with sharp teeth and claws from the other side. Cream of Human soup, anyone? A caged animal is the most dangerous of its kind, and that book would be the cage.

Trying to sound nonchalant, I poured myself a glass of juice (usually reserved for Niko) to think over. "And? It's been done since Dracula. What makes this one dangerous?"

He bawked at me, which would have be funny if he wasn't completely earnest. "The source says it's not from American, so for one, there will be more than just what you've met coming after that book. Syrens, cadejos, kraken, the Organization—"

"Organization?"

"Greek mafia," he said, not losing momentum. "Mostly incubate and that kind of stuff. Anyway, Cal, it's not a good combination. It really isn't. The potential for disaster is higher than a teenager in a burning marijuana field. Fear? Anger? Defensiveness? And that's just against the humans. The author of this book will be a walking target if they're found. And the book? Burned. All of it."

This was too much caring for the puck. I eyed him closely, trying to read him. Then it hit me. "Who wants you to track her down?" I asked under my breath. This smelled like a put-up job. It almost sounded like a damsel-in-distress, and when it came in company of a dick on legs like Robin, I was confident in guessing the author of this book was female. Eat your heart out, Sherlock Holmes.

I knew I had him with his green eye widened to the size of hubcaps. Bingo. I topped off his drink and poured myself a shot as well. "What do you have, Loman? You're too close-mouthed to be innocent this time."

He tossed back the contents of the glass in one go. Such skills – to hear him tell it – drank Bacchus himself under the table. Those skills, I thought, were going to get a lot of work in the future.


End file.
